This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at St. Andrews chapter.
The anonymity of lost objects is surprising.
Melancholy, in a way.
A catalogue of missing things pile up
At the foot of our beds.
There is too much light to see the things we took care to forget.
A picture of someone’s lost love,
An unopened letter of declaration.
The welcome ring of an old friend’s laugh,
The way the sky looks at day-dawn.
Some things we do not mind losing, we never actually lose.
The phantom pain of a skinned knee,
Or a pierced heart.
The sound of bad news as it leaves lips
Like watching an arrow hit its mark.
What a foolish thought,
To imagine them gathering dust.
We bring scars along as souvenirs,
And do not name their price.
Tied to our wrists, our footsteps:
This is how we leave our mark on the world.